(Luke's latest writing venture is at: http://youtu.be/1Ic7DoHlRFQ )
The next night is the Moonlight Club, a room over a pub in West Hampstead, just off the High Street. It’s our turn to headline and it goes as well as can be expected given that I spend a good deal of the set thinking about how often this U2 mob are going to play sets that have everyone on their feet having a great time. I’ve got a horrible feeling they might just do it every night.
We’re all crammed into the tiny dressing room waiting for our respective vans to be ready to leave. Theirs to some local dodgy bed and breakfast and ours back north up the motorway to Brum.
The “crowds” at the shows so far are just about paying for petrol and chips all round, so Annette decrees no bed and breakfasts much less hotels unless we start packing them in. (And probably not then either knowing her.) We’re playing Sheffield University tomorrow night, so at least I might get fed, it being a university.
“’Ere the Sex Pistols are outside.” Dik bursts into the tiny dressing room and the door almost knocks Bono off his chair.
“What, all of ‘em?” I ask.
“Probably just the ones who aren’t dead.” Mulligan says.
U2 look a little nervous.
“Well whatever they want, we haven’t got it.” Annette says.
“Right.” I agree, a little stumped as to what exactly, if anything, we do have.
In the end Jones and Cook try to barge in, being boisterous but there’s really not enough room and once they see there’s nowt going on beyond a bunch of knackered Brummies and Paddies sitting around waiting for their vans, they do a bit of yelling and cackling (as you would expect) and piss off into the night.
Talk about anarchy, eh?
Causes Luke James Supports
Doctors Without Borders